


Of Grace

by firstdrafted



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Jossed, M/M, Magic Revealed, Merlin's Magic Revealed, Reincarnation, Relationship Study, Season/Series 02, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-07
Updated: 2010-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-07 02:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstdrafted/pseuds/firstdrafted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is nameless, creeping, something entirely different and yet entirely the same all at once. It’s not love, what they feel. It never had to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Grace

**Author's Note:**

> Canon-compliant Arthur x Merlin at the time it was written (series two). Relationship study, takes place in an unspecified time roughly throughout the storyline so far, briefly references episodes up to season two and vaguely mentions the Reveal. Rated PG-13/T for non-explicit descriptions of sex and sexual undertones. Full prompt: [“It’s not love; it’s something better.”](http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/7746.html?thread=4620098#t4620098) Click also for the laconic version of the story.  
> 

It’s not _love_.

It can’t be. Not really. Young as they are, wise as they are, guileless and artless and stupid and still possessed of that hint of naïvete that war has not yet managed to take from them, they know of _love_, at least - Roman Cupid and soft pink clouds, a parent’s touch on baby-soft skin, infinite tenderness in a way both of them might have experienced once, long, long ago, before fires and purges and wars were even thought of. They know of love as the glassy hatred of a mother trapped under a chandelier as metal arches through the air, pyres and axes, death and steel, and a portrait, tucked safely into the bottom of a cabinet in the far corner of Uther Pendragon’s bedroom, that one, dust-beautiful corner that not even the king’s own servant dares touch. They know enough of love to define it, to give it form and shape with their lips - something so elusive and yet so ever, ever present. Love is something that they _understand_.

Love is something broad, they say, giving, capable of immensity and just this side of everything (and miracles? . . . perhaps), soft enough to bend with time and strong enough to hammer death. Love - is when the only life that matters has never been your own.

That part, at least, is true.

They know enough of love to know that it’s not. It’s not - not _able _to be described that way, the thing they have together, because love is named and there is something about the two of them (together or apart, for the world has seen nothing like either way) that is thoroughly un-named, and thrives that way. It’s not love, after all, in the arguments and insults they half-mean and half-unmean, not love when their words are sharpened and cut to _hurt_ ever other barb. Love is very clearly not the sting of satisfaction that precedes guilt when an pointed dart hits its mark (not poisoned, yes, but certainly no less harmful because of it). There is nothing remotely close to love in the tenseness of the glances that soar and fall in the space between them - maybe trust and maybe a bond on a level deeper than either of them would care to admit, but certainly not _love_.

It’s not love that they feel, not really, when Arthur delights in pushing forward like commander in charge of his armies, feeling Merlin tense and reach and break the end of his limits. It’s not love, not love like Lancelot looks at Gwen, not love like a heart tearing in half as the two finest men in all of Albion _reach_. It’s not love like arrows and hearts, not love like gilded gold and finery. It’s not anything that would have been able to break the enchantment on Arthur when Olaf and Vivian happened to be unfortunate in the vicinity, and it’s not love that they think of, not _love _that struggles, weak and mewling, through the heavy, metal clouds, not _love _that paints the sky with winestains and blood, not _love _that reflects off water and light on the days when the sun holds triumphant (not love that is laughter and tenderness and the hint of steel in their arguments when neither deigns to bow).

It’s not love, that first, electric brush in the stables, lips on lips and something so much _unlike _love there. It’s not love when Merlin’s arms come up to shove Arthur flat across the barn. It’s not love in Arthur’s eyes when he looks up and all he can see is gold.

It’s not love in Merlin’s face when he turns and runs.

It’s not love that raises the dead, and it’s not love in the blood that slowly seeps from an open shoulder wound (deep enough to pierce armor), and it’s not love in poisoned cups and goblets and fangs. It’s not love that pierces the veil of sleep into the world of dreams, and it’s not love that lies like gleaming rosebuds beneath a fallen knight’s form, and it’s not love that cuts steel with water, makes miracles on a daily basis (for love is incapable of such a thing, and if it _were _love, how could they ever have survived this long?). It’s not love, this half-unspoken trust between them, that has saved kings and kingdoms alike. It’s not love that defies magic. It’s not love that defies fathers. It’s not love that shapes destines.

It’s not love that brings Merlin to Arthur’s bed that night, in an evening cloaked with dark, almost-painful relief for the common folk, relief for the king, relief that can ease the ache of battle wounds (but not heal, because some lessons need to be scars and some scars need to last forever), and it’s not love in that second, searing, too-hot, too-bright kiss, and it’s not love, not in the whisper of the curtains catching moonlight, not in the arc of Merlin’s body and the scrabbling and twisting and tangling of his fingers in Arthur’s hair and the song of _ArthurArthurArthuryespleaseohgodArthurplease _that beats a drum in the breeze, not in Arthur’s fever-bright eyes and the finger-shaped bruises that will be on Merlin’s hips tomorrow, not in the matching pulse-for-pulse, moment-and-a-moment, just for a beat, in Arthur’s eyes (one. To break, to destroy, to consume, to devour. Two. A gentleness greater than in the executioner’s axe, than in a mother’s embrace of her child, than _love _could ever hope to imagine).

It’s not love. If that’s what they call it, behind closed doors and in the safety of each others’ warmth, well. If that’s what they murmur, lazy morning-afters, golden afternoons spent lounging around in the roughness of a friend and the softness of a lover, if that’s what they say, for their own lack of anything else to call it-

It’s not love. It never has been.

But it’s something very, very close.

And it’s something that maybe - _maybe_-

(fifteen hundred years later, and all there is is blue sky and blue laughter and a blue-crinkled gaze grinning down at him, _Welcome to the future, oh mighty Once and Future King_)

-maybe will prove to be even better than either of them could have ever dreamed, that first time one turned to the other and lied - _love_.  



End file.
